


Introductions

by A_Galeb_Duhr_named_Squish



Series: Between Gunfire [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Borderlands 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 23:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21065027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Galeb_Duhr_named_Squish/pseuds/A_Galeb_Duhr_named_Squish
Summary: After a fervor-filled battle, the newest generation of Vault Hunters find themselves on a bus, surrounded by strangers.





	Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> So.  
First Borderlands fic. That's new.  
Just a short one to get started.  
This'll most likely be a running series, updated whenever it strikes me. I don't know if I'm going to toy with events all the way through the story, but I certainly will be spoiling things. Don't worry, as new parts come out, there'll be a checklist in the notes here as to what story mission and/or side missions I'll be playing off of. As for this part, it's assumed to have taken place between the intro cut-scene, and the first meeting of Claptrap.  
This series is also very headcanon heavy, but I've tried to keep it in the realm of possibility. Given the nature of Zane, though... I mean, he could literally have been anywhere. That's what makes headcanons about him fun.  
It's also told mostly from Moze' POV, since I have the most experience with her character out of the four. I'm still going to make mistakes, no doubt, but hey, whatever.  
Enjoy, folks.

_This bus is cramped._

Honest first thoughts, and probably shared among present company. But still, after hoofing it for several miles through the desert, following the lead of a seemingly tireless robotic hunter, Moserah granted that a cramped bus was better than heatstroke and skag attacks. Iron Bear’s on-board air-conditioning unit gave out alarmingly early upon arriving on Pandora, and the former Vladof commando had nary a penny to put towards the repair or replacement. Hence, the bus ride.

She wiped a pool of sun-gifted sweat from her brow, and took a moment to inspect and measure her current comrades. Given that the last day had been full of marching, scavenging, and general hellfire - especially from that last engagement in particular - she hadn’t had the time to really get to know the three Vault Hunter wannabees she found herself with. She used the term ‘get to know’ loosely, in this instance.

To her immediate left, sitting across the front row of seats, back against the window, an older man. Presumably, anyway. The head of ashen hair didn’t do wonders for any attempts to sell the contrary. An eye was covered by some piece of corp-less tech. Was the man missing an eye, or did he decide to upgrade it for his work? His garb was unlike anything she had seen before; sleek, tech-heavy, yet streamlined. Padded boots, too, good for staying quiet. Notes of Hyperion yellow around the collar, but it had been seven years since Helios fell. He couldn’t possibly be in league with them.

Directly in front of Moze, with her eyes closed, was a rare sight. A _siren_. Intricate blue tattoos covered the Partalian’s arms, torso, and back, winding with a snake-like suggestion. They faintly glowed, pulsating slightly brighter every so often. The mech pilot soon matched the pulses to the siren’s breathing - every time she exhaled, the luminescence dimmed. Aside from the aforementioned android, the siren seemed to be the only one keeping pace, unfazed by the rough trek. It made sense, too. She was positively ripped, six-pack exposed by a midriff. The fittest specimen Moze had ever laid eyes on, and she’d been around soldiers for years now.

The final, and most curious of her newfound compatriots was seated at the back of the bus, feeding something to a skag. Moze noticed too late that the robot’s single, gleaming eye was already fixed on her.

“…What are you doing?”

Moze dismissively shook her head, averting her gaze. “Nothin’. Looking around.”

“…Right.”

She heard a faint snicker from the grey-haired man. “You two’re absolutely ace conversationalists.”

The siren spoke this time, in a steadfast but easy-going voice, sprinkled with the notable Partali accent. “I don’t see you coming forward with anything interesting to say, old boy.”

The man smirked. “Alright then. I’ll go first, show you bags of flour how it’s done.” He jeered. “I’m Zane. Zane Flynt. What’s your name, lass?”

There was a silence (bar the ever-present munching sound that came from the steel passenger’s skag) as Zane waited for an answer. Moze waited too, in all honesty, but she kept her intrigue hidden by tipping her head forward, letting the brim of her helmet obscure her eyes.

The siren answered, opening her eyes and dropping her gaze towards the man. “Amara.”

“Amaraaaaa…” Zane repeated. “Amara who?”

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“’Course I’m not! I know who you are. The legendary Tiger of Partali!” He laughed a moment. “Did a few jobs there, people wouldn’t shut up about you. Nice planet, Partali; huge criminal underworld, but that’s neither here nor there.” He turned his attention to both Moze and the robot, gesturing to Amara with a thumb. “Now, be on your best behaviour, kids, you’re in the presence of a celebrity, aye?”

“Flynt.” The robot droned, in a static fashion.

“Aye, that’s me name.”

“Brother of the regrettably named Captain and Baron?”

Zane’s eyes narrowed. “…Aye, but how’d you know-”

“I have a large internal database. That makes you Zane Flynt, a rather accomplished corporate hitman whom has been under the employ of… Anshin, Hyperion, Vladof…”

That made Moze perk up a little. She suddenly became very aware of the knife at her hip, and placed a hand onto the hilt. Had they really gone this far to make sure she was bound to her contract?

“…Maliwan, Pangolin, Atlas Fallen, Jakobs-”

“Aye, and every other corporation in the six galaxies, including Tediore – but we don’t talk about the Tediore job – what’s your point?”

“Why are you on Pandora instead of living off whatever veritable riches you accumulated through murder?”

Zane snorted, tugging at a tuft of grey on his chin. “Y’see that? Grey! I’m retiring.”

“On Pandora?” Amara said in disbelief.

“Why not? Warm, sunny, wide acreage – what’s not to love?”

That garnered a chuckle from the siren, at least.

“But enough about me! What about you, lass? Been quiet.”

Moze lifted her head to peer out from under her helmet. Zane was looking at her now, his posture fully changed so he could face everybody in the bus without turning his head.

“Not much to say, really.” She responded, grip tightening on her knife. “Name’s Moze.”

“Bet that tattoo has a story. Vladof, eh?”

Shit, she’d forgotten to pull down the hem of her shirt. And so there it was, Vladof’s big, dumb old insignia, inked onto the skin of her hip. Printed onto her way back when she had signed up in earnest, thinking things would be… different.

“…Yeah.”

“The pauldron gave it away first, lass. No, wait, sorry, the mech. The big bloody mech gave it away.”

Well, there was that.

Zane smirked at her. “Ursa corp, right? Worked alongside you folks once. Almost got tread on.”

_I wish you had_. She thought to herself.

Moze was hoping that the appearance of her mech wouldn’t be thought about too much. Then again, Vladof had done some pretty sketchy but notable ops on Partali, and that damn robot seemed to know everything, so maybe it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Perhaps it would have been a better idea to not have digistructed Iron Bear at all during that last scrap. It might not have even been a necessary measure; the other three had some sly tricks up their sleeves too. Still, thinking about it wouldn’t change the fact that she _had_ summoned Iron Bear, and the others _had_ seen the act. And, if this Zane guy was hired by Vladof to bring her back or whatever, lying might not grant her any amnesty.

“Ex-Ursa Corp. Didn’t keep the lights on.”

Zane nodded. “Aye, paid me buttons and bus tickets.” He gestured to her waist again. “Don’t mean to sound like an old fart, but you’re absolutely gonna regret that one later.”

If it was meant to be a threat, Moze didn’t know. She pretended it wasn’t, at least for the time. “Honestly? I’d belt sand it off if I could.”

Zane blinked – or was it a wink? – assuredly in her direction, before his open eye navigated towards the cybernetic entity scratching the belly of the skag, which writhed on the floor of the bus with glee. “And you? What’s your whole deal?”

Now that the whole group was looking in that direction, Moze could freely inspect the bot. A thinly framed endoskeleton was hidden beneath a thick, heavy flak jacket, plates of ceramic armour visible beneath the padding. A large backpack sat beside them, adorned with a dog bowl, and myriad pockets, each bulging with objects. The bot had apparently cut the sides of the jacket’s hood to make room for a pair of antennae, sewing it haphazardly back up. A single green eye stared back at the three humans, who were considerably more conscious of just how… fleshy they were in comparison.

“…Call me Fl4k. With a four.”

“With a four! Is that what all you young'ns are doing nowadays?.” Zane jested. “You’re an awakened A.I, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Moze had heard of the phenomena of man-made intelligences gaining sentience. Used to just be the big ones; starship navigators, warminds, planet-wide profiling systems. Now it seemed like the less capacious ones’ turn. Never had any such happening with Iron Bear though, Moze begrudged to admit.

“Seen all sorts ‘a models coming to life. Hyperion loaders, scavenging bots. Never seen anything quite like you, though.” The hitman continued.

“Nor will you again.”

“You know how to fight? Or does your puppy do the biting?”

“I know how to hunt. It is enough.”

Amara piped up. “This isn’t really a hunting trip.”

“Vault _Hunter_. It’s in the name.”

The siren’s lips curved downwards, and she tilted her head in consideration. “Fair point.”

The four to-be Vault Hunters groaned collectively as the bus hit a harsh bump, jolting them in their seats. Zane’s discomfort was mostly audible.

“Could you drive a little less like a maniac, please, Marcus?” He called to the front of the bus.

The ponytailed weapons dealer, Marcus, reefed over in his seat and craned his head around to look back scornfully at the hitman. “You could always get off, Zane.”

“Ah, you’d still owe me for the slag job.”

Slag. More than seven years of service to Vladof, and in all that time, ‘slag’ was the one word Moze hoped she would never have to hear again. The stuff made a mess of Iron Bear’s joints; she was re-greasing them weeks after having been bombarded by it. Not to mention it stuck to flesh like tar. It was a good carrier of pretty much any kind of elemental damage, too, which made it frightening. It was water to electricity, oil to fire, and to corrosive liquids? Well, she still saw that when she closed her eyes.

_Add it to the pile_. She figured.

Fortunately though, after the Hyperion C.E.O had died, there was no way for any of the other corporations to harvest slag, since the only company actually mining the stuff was Hyperion itself. Turns out they were selling it galaxy-wide – bar to Maliwan, one of their prime competitors. Didn’t stop them somehow getting it.

“What’s this about slag?” She posed the question to Zane.

He responded without much thought. “Marcus here had a hefty trade deal with those Maliwan folks. They were willing to double the price of sponsorship if some slag tech somehow mysteriously made it into their hands.” Zane placed a hand on his chest. “Naturally, the big man called on me.”

One man. The whole reason one of her old platoons got wiped out back when Vladof had beef with Maliwan was because of this _one guy_?

“You’re shittin’ me.” Moze’s voice raised, barely concealing anger. “You’re how Maliwan got their hands on that stuff?”

“Aye. And before you ask, no. I’m not particularly proud of it. Though…” He pondered for a moment. “The job itself was bloody magnificent. That Jack fella found out a few months later as well, hired me a few times.”

This time, Fl4k spoke up. “You worked for Handsome Jack?”

“Yep! Hired me to kill some Baha fella.”

The bus came to a grinding stop, the hydraulics puffing, venting air as the cabin lowered. Marcus peered at the four travellers through a mirror just above the windscreen – notable in its lack of glass – and sported a crooked grin. “This is your stop.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, as well as formatting and spelling corrections. It's been a while, folks. Bit rusty.  
Next one's coming. Promise.


End file.
